


swim in your stories (and be pulled down by their tide)

by partywitharichzombie



Series: tell me a piece of your history [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Cameos by Nick and Jack, Light Angst, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25300522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/partywitharichzombie/pseuds/partywitharichzombie
Summary: George wasn't sure when he started feeling this way singing the lyrics Charles wrote—like he was a voyeur into someone else's truth, a narrator trying to recount a story not his to tell.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/George Russell
Series: tell me a piece of your history [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1901857
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	swim in your stories (and be pulled down by their tide)

He wasn't sure when exactly the feeling came creeping in, but once it did, George simply could not shake it off. 

It made him a little unsteady on his feet, though he'd never let it slip once—at least he'd hope so. He hit his notes with precision still, deft fingers gliding across the frets of his Telecaster effortlessly, voice only cracking slightly at the end of the bridge when he didn't breathe in properly before launching into the high chest note he had to belt out. Not being able to completely immerse himself into the song he was singing very much alarmed him, still.

But the show must go on.

In the boiling heat and humidity of a sold out Shepherd's Bush Empire they were holding a couple thousand people captive in their spellbinding performance, his soaring guitar riffs harmonizing with the hypnotizing synths and the intricate rhythm of the bass and the drums. His having an epiphany on stage or otherwise, this connection between the performers and the audience was one too sacred to break.

The show must go on.

* * *

Hairpin Turns had always been his, Alex's, and Lando's project since they started experimenting with making music in Year 10. He'd say they hadn't been  _ that  _ bad, then, but rest assured, the demo tapes would never see the light of day. They were all absolutely helpless when it came to writing lyrics, however. George always felt like he was at his wit's end, trying to translate his feelings into words without resorting to age-old clichés. Whatever it was he had been trying to convey always seemed to fall short. He had a tinge too much pride for him to bare himself and be emotionally vulnerable, Seychelle used to say. (She had been right, as much as he hated admitting it. Perhaps that was why they separated on less than ideal terms.)

When they met Charles who happened to be as gifted in crafting words as he was a musician at university, they'd struck gold. It felt like fate, how easily they all gelled together, how in line their visions were to each other's. A well-oiled machine in no time at all.

Luck would always play a massive part in any band's success, of course, but when they'd finish their demo, he had a feeling they  _ might  _ just make it. Whatever 'making it' was supposed to mean. (And perhaps he might just repay his parents' trust after having let him drop out of medical school.)

Six years, an EP, two LPs—one of which a number one album, and a couple of Mercury Awards and BRITs nominations later, perhaps they might have just done exactly so.

They weren't too bothered with numbers and awards, though. Really, all they wanted was to share something they truly loved with the world.

* * *

"Well, that was a good one," Lando said, hair sticking out in all direction after having toweled his sweat off.

It had been indeed. Touring for days, weeks, months on end, shows would start to blur into one another. In the middle of a leg of a tour there would be a few nights he would feel like he was simply going through the motions, but once the pre-show music was cut and the lights were dimmed to prepare for their grand entrance, George would forget just about every fear and doubts he might have, so invigorating the roar of the crowd was. Hometown shows especially so.

With their latest album out a few months prior and the European leg of the tour just concluded, they were on a roll. Their manager said they could've easily played to a full house Ally Pally, but George was glad they stuck with smaller venues for the UK and Irish leg of the tour. Playing a large crowd had been intimidating at first but they adapted to it in no time—Glastonbury, Coachella, Lollapalooza were all now their neighborhood, and they were to play the Pyramid Stage later that year. George liked being able to see the faces in the crowd, however. Those at the front row, some of them he would see multiple times over across the continent. The mosh pits. The crowd surfers. The long-suffering parent accompanying their children, whose heart he'd hope to win over come the end of the show. It was a lifeline to him, being able to see the myriad of emotions in their faces as they sang the words of the songs back to him, being able to have something akin to a conversation with them.

One being held without using his own words.

God, was he glad Charles made himself scarce for the moment. He blamed exhaustion for his mind going haywire and almost wanted to excuse himself from the afterparty and take the tube home, but he really could use some booze to lull himself into a false sense of normalcy. Maybe he would forget about all this come morning—and he finally could sleep in his own bed tonight, too. Small mercies.

"So do we stay in or hit Soho?" he asked, looking around the dressing room.

"Here?" Lando wrinkled his nose. "Too cramped."

"Your place then," Alex chimed in as he pushed the door to the room open with his shoulder, hands full with his pedalboard. "If you get your arses up here and help the lads pack up a bit, everything will go faster, you know. Then we can party all we want."

"He's not wrong," said Lando. He sank deeper into the dingy couch, legs stretched out and eyes closed. "Be careful when packing my floor toms, George, I just tuned them."

"Smartass." Lando had to duck to miss the empty water bottle George threw at him.

* * *

They had mainland Europe behind them. A week of Easter break in London, then they were northbound: Birmingham, Manchester, Edinburgh, then back down south to Liverpool before crossing the over to Belfast and Dublin. Enough time aboard the tour bus for boredom to set in.

George was sat on the upper deck trying and failing to read Murakami's  _ After Dark _ . Words were gliding before his eyes without him comprehending anything. Maybe he should've taken up on Alex and Lando's offer for a round of FIFA—from their yelling and laughter he could hear all the way upstairs, they seemed to be having a grand time. Sighing, he tossed the paperback into his rucksack and headed downstairs.

They were at the lounge arguing over a goal that should've been ruled out, "If the coders knew anything about football at all, Alex!" and George was mildly surprised to find Charles sitting with them, tucked away in the corner. The notebook he was scribbling on was frayed on the edges and he was down to the last pages.

He watched them from the doorway for a moment, hands braced on either side of the wall for balance against the gentle sway of the bus, each of his bandmates too absorbed in their tasks at hand to notice him.

Seven years might not be a short period of time to know someone, but of course it would pale in comparison to the sixteen he, Lando, and Alex had been friends for. But the four of them worked together well, still, always had since they first met and jammed in Alex's garage. They had a workflow nailed down by now. George would come up with the melody to a song, he'd then lay down some ground work on GarageBand, then they'd meet to jam and fill in the keys and rhythm section. The lyrics would then follow.

Other times, the words would come first.

Song lyrics didn't need to be metaphor-laden and particularly poetic, but it had to be  _ sincere. _ Charles' words were both. And yet there was a quality to them George couldn't quite put a finger on, the fact that they revealed everything Charles had in his mind and not an inch of it at the same time.

Those songs were ones that would move their listeners to tears no matter how upbeat the melodies were, the ones he struggled with most to sing at the moment.

George had been singing some of regular songs in the setlist for as long as he knew Charles, the ones from their first EP especially. He could recite the words backwards in his sleep. Performing it night in, night out should almost be autopilot by now. The lyrics of the songs on their first album  _ Aphantasia  _ were especially laden with symbolism and had a degree of abstraction that made George able to put a certain distance from them, but the same couldn't be said about their new LP,  _ Butterfly Effect _ . Behind the poetry there was indeed something raw, emotions too overwhelming and tales too intimate to be voiced aloud. George felt like a voyeur into someone else's truth, a narrator trying to recount a story not his to tell. Some more of it were already written there on the leather-bound notebook before him, waiting to be revealed to the world.

He didn't realize he was staring and when Charles looked up and met his gaze, it took effort to suppress the rising panic. He pressed his lips together in a tight smile with a healthy serving of feigned nonchalance before turning back and making his way back upstairs, mumbling, "Maybe later, I'm taking a nap," when Alex called after him to join.

* * *

No matter how at home he felt on stage now, touring had not come naturally to him at first. Performing live breathed a new dimension to the songs they fussed and agonized over during recording, true, and the thrill of being on stage was like no other. The many hours on the road and away from home had never been too kind to George, however. It left him with a sense of being untethered.

He'd say it was not too different for Lando and Alex, the three of them with close-knit families they now consider each other's own. They might have tried not to show it, but he knew and understood the strain it put them under, especially when they had been touring North America, its vastness unrelenting.

Charles was the odd one out. Of course he'd been the odd one out.

He thrived as a vagabond. He'd seemed restless, even, when they had to set up base and start recording—he always seemed to need to move around, as if he would drown and wither away if he didn't. Nevermind the same songs, the same lighting, the same pre and post show rituals, the same tepid beer with different brands, he was in his element when they were on the road.

Something to do with chasing the spark of inspiration, perhaps, and George definitely could relate. His phone was laden with voice notes containing random bits of melodies he had thought up between bites of his meals or deep in the witching hours.

Charles would disappear for a bit whenever they took breaks at service stations—stretch his legs, get his thoughts moving, he'd said, a habit unbroken since they had to drive themselves up and down Great Britain in Lando's dad's Ford Transit. They were at one off the M1 somewhere in Nottinghamshire and the famed English weather was in full swing—it wasn't particularly pouring down, but it was unpleasant enough to stay out in the open. April still held the last gasps of winter's chill that cut through his raincoat, yet George spotted Charles at the barely roofed smoking area by the convenience store, hair matted and t-shirt damp, a half-finished cigarette dangling between his fingers.

"Aren't you cold?" he called as he passed by with a bag of snacks and beverages.

Charles looked up and shrugged. George let him be and went back to the bus.

Later he'd find him at the lounge writing again. He noticed his shaking hand and the bright flush of his face behind the notebook.

Against better judgment he shrugged off the zip up hoodie he'd been wearing and tossed it at him.

"Don't get sick, we've got a lot of shows ahead."

It would smell faintly of smoke later, and he wouldn't mind too much for once.

* * *

And just like that, blank.

Words that should have come to him as easy as drawing breath failed him. Sure, it was the live debut of the song, but it wasn't as if he'd forgotten the lyrics—the words simply stubbornly refused to come out.

_ Aren't you a vision, my love, right as the rain, _

_ Feet firm on the ground, yet you cast no shadow _

_ Dreaming of heaven, of ablution from pain _

_ And off you go to a place I daren't follow _

For a few seconds he froze before the three and a half thousand people filling the Manchester Academy. Hastily he swung his guitar around to rest on his back and picked up his microphone from its stand, hopping to the edge of the stage and pretended he had meant to initiate a singalong all along. He turned back and glanced at Alex once the bridge concluded, his calm discipline on the bass guitar unwavering, though a question mark was painted across his face.

He didn't sing the remainder of  _ Zero Hour  _ and instead improvised a solo where the chorus should've been.

* * *

"You good, George?"

"Peachy," he replied, dismissive, too busy pretending to tune his guitar. If they wanted to bring up his mishap, they did a good job pretending not to.

"You sure?" Lando stopped twirling his drumsticks and gave him an odd look. "We are playing  _ Aphantasia  _ for the encore, remember? You use a seven string in that one?"

"Right, yeah." He shrugged off the Hofner Galaxy and handed it to his guitar technician. "Hang on a second, I need to use the loo." He didn't really, but he really could use a delay from having to get back on stage for a few minutes. He set the tap to its coldest setting and splashed a generous amount of water on his face. The shock of cold against his skin felt like the awakening he needed.

* * *

He went straight for the tour bus once showered and changed, though it pained him to ignore the fans waiting in the cold for selfies and autographs. The others would cover for him, make up excuses. He wasn't sure how long he had been laying still on his bunk in the dark, but when he heard the rest of the band and their tour manager filing in his eyes were already too used to the darkness that he winced when the light to the bunks was switched on even though he'd closed the curtain.

"—gave me this."

"That's a  _ drawing? _ Wow. They're so talented."

"You even look better in the drawing, Lando."

"Shut up. I'm gonna get it framed! And look, look, someone else gave me a Valentino Rossi bucket hat—"

"Keep it down," Alex hissed. George imagined they were all glancing the direction of his bunk.

"He asleep?"

"Maybe," Charles mumbled, barely audible.

A pause. "Is he okay? He was a bit out of it tonight," Lando said, a bit too loud, and they shushed him again.

"It's been a long tour, we are all knackered," Alex concluded. "Good night, boys."

"Night night."

The engine started and they were on their way. George tried to let the gentle sway of the bus lull him to sleep, yet it stubbornly refused to take him.

* * *

Hairpin Turns were through with their rounds of interviews and radio appearances when 2 pm approached, and since they had the night off before their upcoming show at the Usher Hall, they were free to do a bit of sightseeing. They checked in to their hotel then went through the standard tourist itinerary—the Royal Mile up to the Edinburgh Castle. George sent a postcard home as he always did, and bought a fridge market to add to his mum's collection. Their labelmates Pacenotes would be playing a show at the same venue later that evening and they had been put on the guestlist, so they went over after having dinner.

Nicholas—drums, percussions—welcomed them backstage. "Hey, mate." He offered George his hand to shake. "Nice of you all to check our set out."

"They made us go," Alex chimed in from behind them. "Thought we'd make sure you won't trash the dressing room before we play tomorrow night."

"And who'd say no to free gigs and drinks?," Charles added, smiling as he gave Nicholas firm slaps on his shoulder. " _ Ça va? _ "

"Ugh, they're about to speak in tongue," Lando said, feigning being horrified.

"Worse, it's French," Jack—vocals, guitar, keys—said as he entered the room, grinning. He patted George's shoulder and gave him a quick embrace. "Leave them be. Hey, George?"

"Yeah?"

"Wanna make a cameo on  _ Sonic Barrier  _ as a treat for the fans?" Their respective fanbases did indeed overlap significantly.

He wanted to decline. "Sure," he blurted out instead.

"Awesome. Know the words?"

"I'll need a refresher."

"Well, get cracking, then."

* * *

George opted to watch the set from the sound desk before he was to make an appearance on stage. The song he would be featuring on would come toward the end of the main set.

It was difficult for him sometimes to let himself unwind and fully enjoy the performance when seeing live music. His brain would continue to tick in overdrive, analyzing the structures of the songs and the performance of the artist on stage. George managed this time, though, so captivating Jack's stage presence was. He delivered the rapid fire verses with conviction, in perfect accord with the thumping beats of the drums and the bright, strident yet smooth synths, then switched to the sweeping chorus with ease, though the fans' voice nearly drowned him out so loud their singalong was.

There were indeed similarities between their music, he supposed. Touring together in the future would make sense—they had discussed it in the past but hadn't found common ground in terms of scheduling. Getting to hang out with their good friends would be a fine bonus.

He took a peek at the setlist: two songs away. George excused himself to the sound engineer, making his way through the mass of people towards the backstage area. It felt like moving through water and being dragged back by something invisible, something else other than the liquid sway of the entranced crowd.

* * *

Surprise appearances felt rather like intruding sometimes, like stealing someone else's thunder.

George stepped onto the stage after Nicholas introduced him to a frenzied chorus of cheers. He cued him and Jack in, and he started singing after the intro.

And it was proving to be more of a struggle for him still, trying to breathe soul into words _and_ melodies that were decidedly not his. He had the crowd's attention, sure, and he was hitting all the notes he was supposed to despite not having in-ear monitors.

It simply didn't feel right.

When the song concluded, he took a bow, thanked the crowd for the warm welcome and Pacenotes for letting him perform. He hoped the smile and the pretense of excitement he put on had been enough to fool the audience. He couldn't remember the last time he felt quite so claustrophobic; he would claw his way out of his very skin if he could it was so suffocating. Without a word George pushed past Alex and Lando who were watching sidestage and nearly ran into Charles on the corridor leading to the dressing room. He found an exit and pushed the door with haste. The cold breeze felt like pins and needles when he breathed in, but it was a welcome change.

He squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against the wall by the door. The air still smelled faintly of smoke, a cigarette probably had been stubbed out just moments prior.

When he heard the exit door being opened he snapped and righted himself.

George supposed it could be considered his usual haunt, so seeing Charles push the door shut shouldn't surprise him. He probably was the person who had just smoked a few here. Two bottles of beer were nestled on the crook of his arm. Wordlessly he reached for the pocket of his denim jacket, pulled out a Bic lighter, and popped the cap off one. He tapped it against George's chest.

"You look like you could use a drink."

"Cheers," he stammered out, then took a couple of big gulps before stopping just short of choking. Charles was looking up at him with an unreadable gaze the entire time before he opened the second bottle and took a sip himself.

They fell into what could pass as companionable silence then, both leaning against the cool brick wall, drinking and looking at their feet, at the deserted loading area, at the cloudless night sky, anywhere else but each other. They could hear the muffled music from the still ongoing set.

George was the one to break the silence. "Ever thought of singing the songs you wrote yourself?" He shifted his weight. "We can put it on our next album. Change things up a bit."

It startled a laugh out of Charles, and when George finally looked at him, he was giving him an odd look. "George, you know I can’t sing."

"Nonsense. You sing well."

"I can sing  _ in tune.  _ But that’s about it." Charles took a swig. "I don’t have _ the voice _ . Unlike you," he gestured with his near-empty bottle.

Warmth rose to his cheeks and it had nothing to do with the alcohol, so he looked away and took a sip from his bottle, trying to swallow the unease away. He'd stepped in as the lead vocalist out of necessity at first, really. "Thanks."

A pause. Charles set his bottle on the ground.

"Is this what's been bothering you? You suddenly feel like you're not good enough?"

George had no idea what to answer. He had to look away, the intensity of Charles' searching gaze leaving him fidgety and he couldn't exactly figure out why. "No, not exactly. I— well, I don't know how to explain it."

Silence fell upon them again. The air felt heavy and viscous, this time. Charles reached for his pack of smokes, tilting his head in a silent inquiry for permission. George nodded. He watched him put one between his lips, trying to light it up, but the Bic was running low and stubbornly refused to. He wasn't sure what came over him but George stepped closer and pried the lighter out of Charles' hand, and it sparked to life on first try.

"Thanks," Charles muttered after taking his first drag. He appeared unfazed. George was significantly more rattled and he wasn't quite sure why. He'd ran out of beer, and his hand was itching for something to do.

Plucking the cigarette right out of Charles' lips was not the wisest course of action, he supposed, but he'd done it anyway. No takebacks now. George couldn't remember the last time he had a smoke it was so long ago. It burned all the way to the back of his throat when he took a drag, the smell offensive to his sensitive nose. He exhaled slowly, eyes following the wisps of white rising before him. Only then George dared to look at Charles, who was still regarding him with a level gaze, though mild surprise was written in the subtle way the corner of his eyebrows rose. Behind those dilated pupil George sensed something he couldn't quite place and wouldn't dare to admit if true. He handed the cigarette back to Charles.

"I—" George began, but found himself at lost for words again. "It didn't feel right," he breathed out, barely more than a whisper. "It doesn't feel right."

"What?"

"Singing your words."

" _ My  _ words?" Charles' frown deepened. "What the hell are you on about?"

"The lyrics in  _ Butterfly Effect— _ " George trailed off. "They're too personal."

From the knitted brows and the way the cigarette hung in his mouth it was safe to assume Charles was genuinely baffled now. "We all wrote the songs together, recorded them, and performed them all over Europe and  _ now _ it suddenly bothers you?"

"I know I'm not making any sense—"

"You aren't."

"—but it's actually bothering me, alright?"

"I don't understand."

George hesitated, trying to pick the right words. "How am I supposed to—to  _ pretend  _ to understand the lyrics you wrote? And they're your stories, they're not mine to tell."

George wouldn't be surprised if he was simply told to ignore his concerns, to just go up on stage and  _ sing _ , for heaven's sake, it was his job, was it not. But he knew that Charles understood that music didn't work that way for them. Music was their passion, their way of channeling their heart and soul. Maybe one day they would grow bitter and tired, maybe they would cease to pour everything they had into their art, but if the time was to come, it wouldn't be anytime soon—or he'd hope so, at least. To perform live was to establish a bond with their audience. They'd all jump to the beat in perfect time, they'd all belt the lyrics on top of their lungs in unity. Through music they were all connected. And to establish this bond was to share a piece of each other.

"I couldn't—can't sing  _ Zero Hour _ ." George sighed, head and shoulders slumping against the wall. "I wouldn't ever do it justice. Same goes for  _ To Take a Fall  _ and  _ Patchouli Bloom _ , if we ever decide to play them live."

Charles had fallen silent. He took a long drag of smoke, exhaling it just as slowly. "You don't have to," he said, smoke still curling out of his mouth. He held George's gaze. "Pretend." The thin smile on his lips as ever a script he could not quite read. "I could tell you if you'd listen."

George turned to face him properly, eyes widening a fraction. He wasn't sure where all this would be going. He'd very much like to find out. "But would you then have to kill me?" He initially meant it as a joke to steer it to a lighter direction, but his voice fell to little more than a whisper.

Charles' smile widened, sharpened. He shuffled closer, their shoulders were nearly touching. "Depends. Are you good at keeping secrets?"

George was about to answer when Charles removed the almost burnt out cigarette from his own mouth and pushed it between his parted lips, thumb and forefinger pressed against the skin, and it almost felt like he was lit aflame. He held it there, so George breathed in, letting the sharp sting of the smoke fill his airways again, pretending the buzz he felt was caused by no more than the beer he had and the foreign surge of nicotine coursing through his veins.

George supposed he had been treading on too treacherous waters for a while now. That he—they—would end up where they were seemed to be but foregone conclusion.

His feeling unable to do the songs justice, his feeling unworthy of being the voice to present Charles' baring of soul before the world. It was all born out of curiosity, of the desire to shed light to the machinations and history behind the man he thought he knew. Charles had been offering a piece of him for a good while now, but it had always been much too cryptic for him to decipher. He thought it was because he felt he would never give these stories the amount of respect they were due, but more than anything, he supposed he simply wanted to  _ know.  _ He wanted him to share the stories with him. He'd wanted more, he  _ needed _ to understand. (To be part of the stories, perhaps, but he wouldn't dare think so far just yet.)

If this, whatever this was, was part of his truth, a twisted way of making George see and understand him, then so be it.

Charles pulled the cigarette out just as George was done exhaling and tossed it carelessly to the side. At first their looking at each other was not unlike a low stakes game of football, each defending their positions and happy to get away with a draw, each holding out making a move, any move. George searched Charles' eyes and thought he might have found a hint of a challenge. He was genuinely curious of what Charles might have found in him. It went on like so for a moment, not a word between them.

He could see Charles clenching his jaw, coming to a decision, before stepping closer still. "I'm going to kiss you." He tilted his head, a hand reaching to settle on the side George's face. "If you want to say no, say it now."

George didn't say no. Nor anything else. Something about action speaking louder than words. It was not too wise a decision, if he'd considered their circumstances at all, but he wasn't thinking. When he dropped his head and closed what little distance was left between them, so would his inhibitions be dropped, too.

They were both equally hesitant at first, testing uncharted territories, the warmth and softness of the lips pressed against his a welcome contrast to his own cold, chapped ones. George pulled back slowly after a moment. He looked deep into Charles' eyes again.

He wasn't exactly sure what was it he found there that compelled him to grab at Charles' jaw and the collar of his jacket, steering him so he was pressed flush against the wall before capturing his lips again, but the low hum he could feel through his mouth was affirmation enough. George pinned him there so firmly Charles was almost on his tiptoes, both arm around George's neck for balance, fingers tangled on his hair. Emboldened, George traced his tongue on Charles' lower lip, encouraging him to open his mouth and was met with little resistance, the slow slide of their tongues setting his nerves on fire.

Just then the music came to a stop, followed by the crowd's roar and applause—the set had concluded. They parted, but not without great reluctance on his part, blood still pounding on his ears when they held on for a moment with their lips still but a whisper away.

"I'll come by later." The care Charles took in the way he was tracing the line of George's lips with his thumb left his head swimming. "I'll tell you then."

"Of course."

* * *

Their tour manager gave them an ultimatum to skip the afterparty, citing the need to rest for tomorrow's show.

Charles showed up at his door with a laptop, a bottle of a semi-expensive looking red, and some bags of snacks.

"There's a 24-hour Tesco nearby," he said as a way of explanation.

George crossed his arms in front of him and leaned against the doorframe, grinning. "Usually I'd like to be taken to dinner first before I'd consider inviting anyone into my room, but I suppose this should suffice."

Charles rolled his eyes and shoved him playfully, pushing past him. "You get to pick what to watch."

George decided on  _ Forrest Gump  _ which he had seen a dozen of times, knowing it would probably go unwatched anyway. They made themselves comfortable on the bed, taking sips of wine straight from the bottle, passing it back and forth.

"Remember when we had to cancel our Mad Cool set?" Charles said a quarter of an hour or so into the film, drawing his legs in and hugging them. "I said I wasn't feeling well?"

"Yes."

"I got the news, then. He—" Charles halted, sighing. In the room only illuminated by the screen, George could see his eyes glimmer with the start of tears. "I—loved him. I wish I had told him before—" He didn't continue.

It took George a moment to piece it together: what Charles just told him, the words in the song he wasn't able to sing. "I'm sorry," was all George could muster. To think Charles had to carry the burden of grief on his own for so long sent a pang of dull ache through him, and he felt his throat catching. He reached for Charles and pulled him into his embrace, letting him settle on the crook of his neck. He rubbed slow circles on his back and caressed his fingers through his hair, unsure what else he could or should do. If this was all he could offer Charles, George would stay however long he needed him to.

* * *

Usher Hall was quite a sight to behold. George was sat with his legs dangling off the edge of the stage, following the swooping curves of the balconies with his eyes. The stage was set, the soundcheck almost completed. In a few hours, a crowd of three thousand would fill the room, energizing the now still air.

"Beautiful venue, isn't it?"

He turned his head to find Charles taking a seat on one of the amplifiers next to him, his Jazzmaster slung across his back.

"It is."

Charles looked up to the ceiling. George followed his gaze, taking in the intricate patterns adorning it. "Hope we won't get tired of all this anytime soon."

"Yeah."

A beat of silence fell between them.

"Can you hear me, George?" the sound engineer's voice crackled into his ear.

He put his in-ear monitors back in properly, watching Charles do the same. "Crystal," he answered into the microphone he was holding.

"Alright then, we're all good. We can start the playthrough."

Charles got up from the amp as George swiveled his legs back onto the stage. He took the hand Charles offered him to help him stand up, lingering a heartbeat too long before they let go.

* * *

The pre-show playlist faded out. The lights went dim before darkness descended upon the room. The crowd's chanting grew into a frenzy.

They stepped onto the stage with a chorus of cheers. They were right where they belonged.

_ Zero Hour  _ was taken off the setlist again. It could stay a rarity and fans would tweet them and hassle them on Instagram for it to be played again for years to come. Perhaps one day George would feel like Hairpin Turns— _ he— _ could do the song justice and pay a fitting tribute to the person that inspired it.

But perhaps by then they would already have more stories they would be able to immortalize through their music and words. Stories they would have written together, stories that were theirs.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Silence by Bastille.
> 
> Got a fully outlined, plotty story and the sequel to _Spectre_ to work on, and started this as a warm up because I was (still am) struggling with writing anything for those WIPs. Guess things got a bit out of hand—apparently I enjoy writing people trying to figure out Charles Leclerc. Might as well put it on the good ol' Archive.


End file.
